


Choice

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 02:23:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4589439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo discovers that Strider plays favourites.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choice

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Frodo is Aragorn's favorite hobbit. Everyone knows it but Frodo” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2320.html?thread=13878288#t13878288).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

They’ve walked too far too long, the same every day, with not enough food and too many brambles under their feet: they’re far past the comfortable earth of the Shire. Every step Frodo takes feels heavier, the weight around his neck sometimes tangible. His pack is even worse, though Sam keeps lessening it, good old faithful Sam, who never once complains. 

Pippin complains often. He wants breaks, and Merry agrees, and as soon as it gets dark out they’re pestering Strider for it, but he only takes a few more steps ahead and ignores them, having explained many times: no. They need to keep moving. When Pippin falls back next to Frodo, Sam in the rear with Bill, he pouts and mutters, “This is ridiculous! Every day of this! And we’re expected to keep going at it for who knows how long!”

So Frodo finally admits, commiserating, “I feel so _sore_ I fear my feet will fall off.” Pippin looks sharply around, a twinkle of familiar mischief in his eye, and Frodo frowns.

“You should tell Strider to let us stop,” Pippin says, suddenly serious. When Frodo only lifts both brows, Pippin insists, “He’d listen to you! If he knew you felt poorly, he’d let us set camp now instead of after we’ve walked ourselves to death.”

“Don’t be daft; he’s told you and Merry no a dozen times.”

“That was me and Pippin,” Merry adds, now dawdling back to join them. He insists, “It’d be different if _you_ asked him.”

Frodo doesn’t see how but doesn’t get a chance to say it, because Pippin chirps, “You’re his favourite.”

It’s Frodo’s turn to look sharply at Pippin, cheeks hot. “I am not.” After Pippin just rolls his eyes, Frodo admits, “Perhaps it seems that way to you because of the ring, but that’s really all my value.”

“It’s got nothing to do with that,” Merry snorts. “You’re his favourite hobbit, just like you’re Sam’s favourite, and I’m Pippin’s.”

“No, you’re not!” Pippin snaps, looking mock horrified, but Merry just grins like he’s known the truth for years. Frodo’s busy blushing hotter. He has to admit that Sam’s more fond of him than he deserves, or poor Sam wouldn’t be in this mess at all, toiling loyally behind him. But Strider, for all his gruffness, seems a great man underneath it all, clearly one of skill and hidden talents, and he has no reason to be attached to one particularly small hobbit with a heap of trouble around his neck. 

Pippin calls ahead anyway, “Strider, Frodo needs to stop!”

To Frodo’s surprise, Strider does pause ahead of them, no longer parting vines and long grass. He looks over his shoulder, and for a moment, Frodo thinks he’s going to come over and bind a handkerchief around Pippin’s mouth out of sheer frustration. Instead, he wades back to them, murmuring, “You would do well to keep your voice less loud, Master Took.”

“And you’d do well to let us lay our bodies down before our bodies lay us down,” Pippin chirps back, Merry standing in solidarity at his side. Strider’s lips twitch as though they’ve brought him another laugh, but he keeps his amusement in check and instead turns to Frodo. 

“I’m fine,” Frodo insists, despite Pippin and Merry’s heated glares. He hears Bill stopped behind them, and he doesn’t want to worry Sam or Strider, so he lies, “I just stubbed my toe, but I’m alright now, really.” In truth, he fears Pippin’s words; he really does feel like he could collapse any second. 

Strider sweeps a piercing gaze up and down his body, during which Frodo has to look away. Strider’s very tall, broader the Frodo and too well defined, scraggly and muddied but ruggedly _handsome_ underneath, made even more so by the care in the way he watches Frodo. Finally, he nods, muttering, “Just a little farther, and we’ll make camp.” Pippin groans and Merry grumbles something about Big People with their too-big legs. Frodo glances around to find Sam slumping dejectedly, but they do all move on again, cutting through the wilderness in an uneven procession.

By the time they do finally stop, it couldn’t come sooner; Frodo’s sure the next few steps would’ve done him in. They settle down in a tight circle between the trees, the night around them and the moon not quite enough light through the leaves. They share only a bit of food, because Strider insists they save what they can for when times get _tougher_ , which Merry grunts that he can’t imagine. When they’ve had their fill, they lay out their bedrolls, Sam not far from Bill and Merry and Pippin huddled closely together. Frodo sets his down, while Strider sits back against the base of a thick trunk, like he has no need of sleep. 

He’s probably the most tired of all of them, longer legs or no; he takes the most watch, and he has to think as well as walk, always looking out for them. Frodo watches him for a few minutes, still sitting up, exhausted but not quite ready for sleep. Then Strider gestures with one finger, and Frodo knows he’s stared too long. Cheeks flushing, he climbs back to his feet and totters over, only to stumble down before Strider’s bent knees. 

Strider asks, quiet and soothing, “What troubles you, Frodo?” 

Frodo doesn’t really know what to say. When he looks at Strider now, knowing him better and trusting him, seeing him in the light of the stars, he looks so much different than when they first met. Frodo was suspicious then and saw a vagabond instead of a guide better than any of them could hope for. Strider’s scruffy and rough, but there’s also something vaguely _regal_ about him, artful and almost Elven. He’s powerfully alluring when Frodo looks too long, so Frodo only shakes his head and mumbles, “Nothing, it’s... it’s just something stupid Pippin said.”

That happens more often than not. Still, Strider looks unconvinced; perhaps he’s too wise to accept a lie. He is Gandalf’s friend. But he doesn’t bother Frodo over it, just nods towards Frodo’s bedroll and the others, saying, “You should sleep. You’ve earned your rest.”

Frodo nods again, agreeing, but finds he can’t quite move.

He doesn’t want to. He turns to, but doesn’t make any motion forward, and then he looks back and numbly blurts, “Am I your favourite?” His face colours as soon as he’s said it, but it’s too late to take it back. Strider looks surprised.

Then he glances at the others, all fast asleep as hobbits are wont to do after too much labour. Frodo thinks it’s cue to leave, but before he can, Strider answers, “Yes.” It’s calm and sure, giving Frodo a start. 

He immediately asks, “Why?” Because he can hardly believe it. Strider looks at him, lifting a brow, and Frodo rambles, “Merry’s taller, I think. And Sam’s better for help—good at cooking and with Bill and whatnot, and he’s stronger than I am. And Pippin’s... well, even he has something to offer: energy and youth...”

“And you’re the oldest and the wisest,” Strider calmly adds. “The one with the Elven tongue, and the most beautiful.”

Now Frodo can _feel_ the redness in his cheeks; his whole face is hot right down to his shoulders. He can only hope the darkness hides it, but with Strider’s sight, probably not. Strider seems a mystery of all skills. And Frodo’s just... “I thought myself something of a hindrance,” he murmurs. “And that if someone stronger had the ring, we’d be far better off.”

“You have more strength than you know,” Strider offers, equally as soft. “And I think it a strange luck that’s given you the ring, though that you bear it has nothing to do with my fondness for you.”

Frodo could almost laugh, but sadly, and instead shakes his head, insisting, “I’m not beautiful...”

“You are,” Strider says right back. His hand reaches out, long fingers with the open glove wrapped around his palm, to land on Frodo’s shoulder. It squeezes once, reassuring, warm and strangely intoxicating. Frodo’s hyperaware of Strider’s hand on him, especially when Strider murmurs, “I have always had a weakness for beauty.”

Frodo’s breath is coming faster than before. He feels himself drawn to Strider, as he is too often, what he though was just for strength and safety but now seems something _more_. He dares to breathe, “You’re _very_ handsome.” Strider smiles, kind and pretty, sincere even though it looks as though he doesn’t believe it, or at least thinks it odd that Frodo should say so. Frodo licks his lips, and he finds himself crawling closer. 

He climbs somewhat awkwardly into Strider’s lap, off the dusty earth and onto Strider’s soft flesh, with layer upon layer of needless clothes between them. Strider lets him wriggle into place, and the hand on his shoulder even drifts down his body, coming to rest at his waist. The other lifts to Frodo’s face, palm sliding along his cheek, and Frodo asks, feeling foolish but curious, “Do you... do you _like_ me?”

Strider answers by moving forward. He’s slow, sensual, giving room for Frodo to pull away that Frodo doesn’t even think of taking. His breath catches in his waiting, his lips falling open, partially in surprise and partially in hope. Strider presses into him. Strider’s mouth is surprisingly silken, slick and hot, tongue tracing once over Frodo’s bottom lip to slither inside, lap at his own and twist around it. Frodo moans into the kiss, pressing back. For several wonderful minutes, Strider fills Frodo’s mouth with a talented tongue and thumbs his cheeks, fingers twisting around his dark curls, kissing all his breath away. When Strider does part them, Frodo whines and tries to follow. 

Strider chuckles affectionately and pecks Frodo’s lips, shallow and chaste. His fingers tug Frodo back by the hair, so that their foreheads can touch but nothing else. Strider purrs, “You’re very tempting.”

“Take me,” Frodo asks, ashamed but strangely desperate for this man, so powerful and fiercely good to him. It’s been too long since anyone wanted him, since he wanted anyone in return, and none have been as exotic and enticing as this ranger of the north. The adventurous streak in Frodo, something he thought buried in the reality of this drudgery, flares to life to _taste_ new things. Strider kisses him again, tender but too short, and pulls back to smile sadly. 

“I wish I could.” It looks like he truly does, but the rejection makes Frodo wince all the same. “But I cannot afford this right now, and I am not sure you can, either. We still have much to do, and I have things I need to sort out before I could give myself properly to anyone.”

“So keep yourself and take me,” Frodo suggests, knowing it won’t work but at least enjoying Strider’s amused grin. In a strange way, Frodo does understand, though he can’t guess any of the details. He knows there’s much, much more to Strider than they’ve learned. 

Strider promises, “Perhaps in time. For now, you will have to be content with the knowledge that you will always be my favourite hobbit.”

A little to mask his own disappointment, Frodo teases, “Until you go to the Shire and find better.”

Strider kisses his cheek and chuckles, “I have been to the Shire many times, and there is none better.” Frodo can’t possibly believe that, but he hushes as Strider gives him another kiss, now on the mouth, but without tongue. “Rest, Frodo; we have long to go before you are as safe as I wish you.”

Frodo sighs. As trying as the day’s been, he’d rather spend the night in Strider’s lap. But Strider’s made himself clear, and Frodo begrudgingly climbs off, stumbling back to his bedroll with heavy feet. When he settles beneath the thin covers, he lies on his side to face Strider, who stays sitting, watching out for them. He gives Frodo gentle smile that Frodo returns, strangely shy. Then Strider looks away to the trees, and Frodo closes his eyes, more ardent to finish this quest than ever.


End file.
